


Nevermind, someday maybe

by Crollalanza



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Beginnings, M/M, chapter 202 compliant (ha ha)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 09:27:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6560968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A late practise.</p>
<p>One last time.</p>
<p>Bokuto waits. </p>
<p>Akaashi watches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nevermind, someday maybe

**Author's Note:**

> I first wrote this for tumblr. The prompt was Bokuto/Akaashi and “You heard me. Take. It. Off.”
> 
> With Chapter 202 out, I thought this was somewhat relevant.

He heard the door creak but didn’t turn around. He didn’t turn when he heard the squeak of trainers on the floor, or the flump of a kitbag dropped. And he refused to answer the call of his name, followed by a tentative command from the newcomer.  Bokuto stayed where he was, waiting.

The boy persisted. “You heard me. Take. It. Off.”

He turned – finally -  an unbelieving twist on his lips as he heard the words.

“Gonna make me?” Bokuto said, not belligerently, but with a soft almost wistful lilt.

“If I have to, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi replied, _his_ voice firm, unwavering. “Come on, it’s time to go.”

_Why’s he like this?  What harm am I doing? It’s not as if..._

“Bokuto-san?” Akaashi stepped closer.

“Stop with that!” Flapping his hand, Bokuto bent down and picked up a ball.

“Stop with what?”

“You know.”

“Hmm?”

“That ‘san’, stuff. We ain’t playing a match now.”

“You’re still my upperclassman.”

_And that’s all, right?_

He threw the ball over his shoulder, trusting to his Setter, and grinned to himself when he didn’t hear a thud as it dropped to the floor. “Toss for me, yeah?”

“Without blockers?”

Bokuto gestured to the far side of the gym, to the set of brightly coloured plastic cones laid out, not in a neat line, but haphazard across the court.

“I’m goin’ for accuracy, Akaashi-kun. Cross court, straights, fricking zig-zag if that helps. Name a cone, just as you toss, alright?”

“It’s late, Bokuto-san. We shouldn’t be here.”

“Just toss until I miss, okay?”

With an almost imperceptible nod and a slow blink, Akaashi agreed. He stepped onto the court, positioning himself a metre from the net, a little off centre, and spun the ball in his hands.

“Blue cone,” he called and tossed.

_Slam!_ The cone skidded to the side, the ball landing with a resounding thump.

“ALL RIGHT!”

“Orange, far corner.”

He spiked again, this time hitting its side. “BOOYA!”

“Yellow, centre.”

“DAMMIT!” Bokuto yelled. “That was an easy one, too.”

“Faster toss, though, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said, smiling.

“And ya put more spin on it, didn’t ya?” Bokuto replied, clicking his tongue. “That’s new.”

“It’s not just the Ace who wants to improve,” Akaashi informed him. He walked to the basket, picking up another ball. “Do you want another?”

“Huh? I thought you were stopping once I missed.”

“Maybe I need to practise too.” He bounced the ball, then leapt. “Green cone, centre back!”

“HELL YEAH!”

Like a rooster he crowed, preening as the rest of the cones, slid and skidded and flew off the court, one or two cracking under the force of his spikes. And it was good, so good, this practice, this final time here, but as the dark closed in, as the moon began to filter through the gymnasium windows, highlighting not just the tattered taped lines of the court, but the torn net sagging in the middle, Bokuto knew he’d come to a close.

“Okay,” he said, sniffing as he took one shuddering breath. “I’m done.”

“Not quite,” Akaashi replied, one lone bead of sweat betraying the effort he’d put in.  Stepping right up to Bokuto, he lifted his hand and touched him on the chest, tracing the four with his fingers.

And if Bokuto hadn’t known better, he could have sworn Akaashi’s eyes were glimmering.

“You want my shirt, don’t you?”

“Bokuto-san...” He broke off, and swallowed. “You’re not the captain anymore.”

And there it was. His three years at Fukurodani coming down to this final scene. It was like some corny sketch in a low budget film. The star player knowing his time was over, that he was done, that other people were more important and his chance had gone.

But still ... He hugged his arms across his chest, feeling the fabric creased and warm against his skin. His number, his shirt, his identity.

“It’s ...” Akaashi began, then bit his lip.

“What’s that?”

His voice came out thick and fast, unusually uncollected and stammering for Akaashi.“It’s not too l-late. You c-could keep it. We’ll retire the number...”He trailed off, leaving the thought to percolate in the air between them.

Could he?

_Yes._

Would he?

_Yes._

Should he?

His arms hung by his side and he shook his head. “That wasn’t the deal, Akaashi-kun.”

“Keep the shirts if we win Nationals, you mean?” Sighing Akaashi turned away. “It was the longest of longshots, and really, no one’s going to mind. You were always our Ace – the player with star quality. You’ve earned that shirt.” He licked his lips. “If that’s what you want.”

Closing his eyes, Bokuto wondered what it was he really wanted. A shirt to remind him, he’d once thought.  Or was it something that would, Akinori had once said, ‘manacle the rest of their lives to an apex reached far too young’, leaving them nothing to aim for. And he’d heard the words when they’d discussed shirts, but he guessed it hadn’t made much sense before now.

He grimaced, and now decided, he pulled at the shirt, tugging it over his head. “You might fricking help me, kouhai!” he complained when his arm got stuck. “Dammit, this ain’t a dignified exit at _all_.”

Hearing a laugh, he stopped struggling and waited. There was a faint touch and then Akaashi’s fingers stretched out the sleeve, helping him through, before Bokuto wrestled free from the folds.

“Thank you!” Bokuto muttered, and ignoring Akaashi’s stifled snort, he dropped the shirt into his hands. “It’s yours now, Captain.”

“Are you okay with that? Only, I could wear another number next year. Give this to our new Ace.”

Shaking his head, Bokuto took a step away, smiling as he assessed the boy in front of him, who for a second looked insecure, as if terrified of the task he’d taken on.

“Wear it with pride, Akaashi-kun. Take the team to Nationals. Take them all the way to the top.”

Something was tearing inside of him, ragged and sore, the pain not quite bearable.

But he knew he’d heal. “And when you win, _then_ you can retire the shirts. Is that a deal?”

He replied with a rasp. “It’s a deal, Bokuto-”

“Uh-uh. No more of that.” He tried a grin, but somehow his mouth refused to obey him, and his lips trembled so much he had to bite them. “I ain’t the Captain anymore.”

He watched Akaashi swallow. He watched as he clutched the shirt tight in his arms, and as he wiped one eye. “What shall I call you then?”

“How ‘bout Koutarou?”

The world between them widened, narrowed, then stopped. It was about seizing _every_ chance - Bokuto knew that now - getting stuck in one pattern had always been his worst fault. So, even though he was aware this could be yet another mistake of Bokuto _esque_ epic proportions, he reached across to trail his thumb across Akaashi’s cheek.

For a moment, Bokuto thought he’d flinched, but it was only an indrawn breath, and under his hand, he felt rather than saw Akaashi’s smile.

“Koutarou,” Akaashi replied. It didn’t sound as if he was struggling with the name. There was an ease and a familiarity as if he’d practised for this as surely as he practised his serves. “Call me Keiji.”

“Keiji,” Bokuto said, testing the word and finding he liked it. But then, he’d rolled the name off his tongue many times before - it was only now he was saying it out loud.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Favourite Shirts by Haircut 100. Hey, I could have called it Stick your honey bun' so be thankful!


End file.
